


'Scuse me While I Kiss this Guy

by Dawnwind



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: First Time, Kissing, M/M, Song Lyrics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:27:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23741545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawnwind/pseuds/Dawnwind
Summary: Starsky's got the song lyrics all wrong, which only fuels Hutch's desire. Originally published in the  2019 SHarecon zine.
Relationships: Ken Hutchinson/David Starsky
Comments: 4
Kudos: 29





	'Scuse me While I Kiss this Guy

‘Scuse Me while I Kiss this Guy  
by Dawnwind

Hutch often tuned out Starsky singing. His voice wasn’t bad at all; a mellow baritone. More that Starsky hummed or burst into song so damned often. Not only when they were inside their own apartments listening to licorice discs, but out in public. He sang at the drop of a hat—whether or not there was music playing. And he was enthusiastic, belting out the lyrics for anyone nearby to hear.

To be totally honest with himself, Hutch could get lost in Starsky’s melodies. Could watch those lips shaping each word and imagine things he was sure Starsky didn’t intend whatsoever.

Hutch took a swallow of soda, pretending he wasn’t entranced by the performance across the table from him. The jukebox in Huggy’s bar had a wide range of selections from all music genres. Starsky seemed to know the lyrics to every single one. Not really a surprise considering the amount of time they spent there.

Starsky had jammed his way through several Beatles songs, two by Marvin Gaye, and a regrettable Carpenters ditty. Hutch was actually surprised Huggy had Karen and Richard on his playlist. Next up was _Stayin’ Alive_ by the BeeGees, not one of Hutch’s favorites.

He concentrated on his lunch, a marvelous burger with bleu cheese and thousand island dressing, made to perfection by Huggy’s current fry cook. Hutch would have to learn this guy’s name and thank him. The burger was decadent, to be sure, and loaded with artery clogging fat. He limited himself to one per month and savored every juicy mouthful. A meal like this—with fries, of course—demanded a Pepsi. Another indulgence he tried to avoid on a regular basis. But this was his reward for getting through the last twelve hour shift in a week where he and Starsky had dealt with more than their fair share of muggings, drug arrests, and a horrible situation with a man high on PCP who had murdered his wife.

Hutch closed his lips around the red and white plastic straw in his glass, taking a big gulp of Pepsi just as Starsky warbled, _“’scuse me while I kiss this guy!”_ in perfect sync with Jimi Hendrix, strumming some righteous air guitar riffs.

The bubbles shot up his nose in a most unpleasant manner and Hutch choked, the soda flooding the back of his throat. He coughed, weakly at first, then full on croaking, his lungs forcefully expelling the unexpected fluid.

“Hutch!” Starsky broke off abruptly, clapping him on the back with a broad palm. “You okay?”

Taking quick, shallow breaths, Hutch got his breathing under control, still unable to speak. He inhaled carefully, and nodded, gazing into Starsky’s concerned blue eyes.

Damn, another one of those instances when he shouldn’t have let his guard down. Hutch ducked to have another sip of Pepsi so he wouldn’t surrender to the allure of those eyes. “Pop went down my Sunday throat,” he said to the glass.

“That one of your Farfar Mattiasen’s old sayings?” Starsky grinned, plucking a fry off Hutch’s plate.

Hutch nodded, filling his mouth with delectable burger, a ploy to avoid watching Starsky’s mouth moving. Those lips were so… He frowned, mentally replaying the last few minutes. “Starsk, what were you singing?”

 _“Purple Haze.”_ Starsky shot him a bemused look as if Hutch should have known. Humming along to the current hit playing, _Little Red Corvette,_ his head was bobbing in time to the beat and hips wiggling even though he was sitting in the booth.

“No, the specific line,” Hutch said.

 _“Scuse me while I kiss this guy…”_ Starsky sang a little off key since he was competing with Prince.

“That’s not right!” Hutch almost choked again, this time on burger. Had he somehow transmitted his secret desires into Starsky’s brain?

“It’s not?” Starsky stuffed a handful of his own fries, covered liberally with ketchup into his mouth. Tomato sauce dripped onto his chin like a sloppy vampire after a feast. “The song’s not about two queers?”

“No, it’s…” Hutch had to concentrate to bring up the correct lyrics. _“Purple haze was in my brain…”_ he sang softly, almost inaudibly until the line, _“Actin’ funny but I don’t know why, ‘scuse me while I kiss the sky.”_

Starsky’s expression was comical, his eyebrows scrunched down over his eyes like caterpillars. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It’s a metaphor for confusion,” Hutch explained, remembering hearing the song for the first time when he was twenty-two. The words were nonsensical, possibly psychedelic, describing that delirious confusion of first love.

“You can’t kiss the sky,” Starsky said in what sounded like a flat out challenge.

If he kissed Starsky while starring into those blue eyes, would it feel like kissing the sky? For the first time, Hutch didn’t have a wave of panic at the idea of putting his lips on Starsky’s. In fact, he wanted to do it. Really badly. He took a giant bite of burger, chewing lustily.

“Kissing a guy, now…” Starsky trailed off, clearly contemplating the notion. “You ever thought about doing that?”

Hutch’s throat locked, his cheeks blazing, and for a moment he thought he was going to hurl. He swallowed a massive chunk of meat that felt like a boulder rolling slowly—and painfully—down his esophagus. He banged a fist against his chest as if that would help in the slightest. Maybe Starsky really could read his mind? “W-why do you ask?” he sputtered, and had to wipe his mouth afterward.

Starsky gave a tentative grin, the curve of his mouth extending up both cheeks to put stars in his eyes.

Undone, Hutch was sure he’d melt right into the floor, a puddle of unrequited lust. 

“It ain’t bad, y’know,” Starsky said in what sounded suspiciously like encouragement.

“When have you done it?” Hutch demanded, his meal forgotten.

“'Nam.” Starsky ate more fries, placing three on the tomato and onion atop his burger, then positioning the bun carefully for the new taste sensation. His mouth went wide to accommodate the large sandwich.

Hutch’s heart fluttered.

“You kissed… a soldier?” Absurdly, a dirty little ditty he’d learned in sixth grade came back to him. _My auntie tol’ her, I kissed a soldier, and now she won’t buy me a rubber dolly._ That was no help! He was lost, unable to think.

“Yeah. When there wasn’t somebody around I wanted to kiss more,” Starsky said evasively. He tipped his chin, looking directly at Hutch as if searching for specific instruction.

“D-did you find someone else you wanted to kiss?” Hutch hitched an unsteady breath, sure his lungs didn’t contain enough air.

“Yes.” Starsky regarded him pensively, the way he would a suspect in the interrogation room. Calculating. “And I'm pretty sure he wants to kiss me, too.”

What should he say? Like half the criminals they collared, he wanted to confess. Immediately. He licked his lips, tasting the salt from the fries mixed with sweetness from the Pepsi. “Hedoes,” Hutch said in a rush.

“Thought so.” 

Starsky looked so smug Hutch suddenly wanted to smack him in the mouth instead of kissing him. Both would have brought satisfaction of a kind, but the thought of a kiss—and possibly other things?—was far more seductive.

“We gotta…” Hutch glanced over at Huggy and Diane at the bar, and the dozen or so patrons sitting at the tables. This was certainly not private, not by a long shot.

Starsky shifted, reaching down to adjust his jeans as if they’d grown tighter than usual. “Get out of here?” he asked, voice an octave higher than it had been.

Leave it to Starsky to be practical and direct. “Yes,” he said. “Did you pay?”

“I thought you did.” Starsky stood abruptly, grabbing his leather jacket from the back of his chair and holding it in front of him like a shield. 

“Huggy’ll put it on the tab.” Hutch pulled out a wad of ones and tossed them on the table. Not enough for both dinners, but it would have to do. He felt lifted out of himself, compelled in a way he had never expected when they came into The Pits forty-five minutes ago. How could he have anticipated this? How would it turn out? What if kissing Starsky was like kissing… a brother or cousin? 

He took a step, almost over-balancing when Starsky came around the table in a rush. As often happened, they fell into lockstep, side by side through the restaurant, Huggy’s half heard "g’bye" neglected by both of them.

The front door presented an obstacle. It was not wide enough for them to go through shoulder to shoulder. Starsky looked up at Hutch with challenge in his eyes, swinging the door open with such force that it banged loudly against the wall. He shoved through to the sidewalk, Hutch so close behind him they could have been conjoined.

The beater was parked across the street. His heart beating in his mouth, and in his swollen groin, Hutch fumbled in his pocket to find the keys. But his hands were shaking too much to fit the key into the keyhole.

“Haven’t had much practice at this, have you?” Starsky sounded amused, sarcastic, and slightly crazed, at the same time. He grasped Hutch’s hand in a sweaty fist, guiding his hand to slide the key into the lock. “Hope you have better aim with other body parts.” He pressed so closely against Hutch, his erection felt as hard as a hammer into Hutch’s hip. 

_Damn!_ They hadn’t even kissed yet and Starsky was proposing—insertion of what? Cock into a willing mouth? Hutch could get behind that. Or rather, in front of that. He loved a warm tongue gliding around his penis. 

What if he meant penetration? Cock into the butt hole? 

_Oh, God._ That was uncharted territory. 

He inhaled with a grin, got both hands on the steering wheel and the car started without help from a lecherous looking Starsky. 

Starsky placed one hand deliberately on Hutch’s corduroy covered thigh, his fingers so close to the visible groin bulge that Hutch was sure he’d go mad if Starsky moved his hand one inch closer.

He’d certainly be unable to concentrate. Easing onto the street, he calculated how long it would take to drive somewhere at this time of night. His place was closer in distance, but the freeway onramp to Starsky’s canyon house was a block and one turn from where they were. The big car eased onto the roadway, headed for—the narrator in Hutch’s brain was about to say destiny, or maybe paradise.

“Turn left,” Starsky said abruptly.

Accustomed to following directions when pursuing a lead, Hutch did as told without question, bumping the car into a deserted parking lot. “What?” he demanded irritably, all rational thought having fled long ago.

“A motel.” Starsky shoved open the door. “It’s not my place or your place, it’s—“

“Switzerland,” Hutch finished. “Neutral. In case this doesn’t…”

Starsky held up a hand to stop him. “I’ll register. Night and Day?”

“Too obvious.” Hutch bit his lip—not the lip he’d hoped to be sucking on tonight. “Rafferty and O’Brien.”

“You’re O’Brien, right?” Starsky said over his shoulder.

“Does it really matter?” Hutch stood, facing the car to adjust his overly restrictive fly.

The motel’s location was familiar. There had been a motel on this corner for as long as Hutch had lived in Bay City, but the name and signage were always changing. There must be some weird LA county ordinance requiring palms whenever a place was redecorated because two squat trees had been planted outside the office to match the brand new neon sign. Ocean Palms Motel. Except the ocean was miles away.

The night manager seemed unfazed by a late arrival. Hutch watched Starsky chat with the guy at the desk, emerging after only a couple of minutes with a key.

“Number six.” Starsky pointed down the single row of doors on the long narrow building. “Sorta in the middle.” He gave a little hop as if unable to hold still and took off for the room. He stopped short, waiting for Hutch to follow, dropping the key into Hutch's hand when they were together “Feel like we should do something… momentous.”

“I’m not carrying you over the threshold,” Hutch snorted, dealing with the door key far more adroitly than he had with the car keys.

The room had the stuffy, stale smell of every motel Hutch had ever stayed in. As if, despite a regular cleaning service, the place needed a good airing out, or maybe a bouquet of flowers to chase away the odor of desperation. Twin beds, a TV, and a door to the bathroom.

“Hutch?” For the first time, Starsky sounded uncertain. He turned into Hutch, tilting his head slightly.

Instinctively, Hutch pulled him close, seeking his mouth. Their two inch height difference was insignificant. There was no maneuvering or stooping to accommodate for size the way it always was with a woman. This felt natural, positive, amazing. 

Starsky latched on, his lips the perfect combination of soft and firm. Hutch heard a kind of humming moan and wasn’t entirely sure which one of them was making the sound.

He wanted to kiss Starsky forever, and from the feel of things, Starsky had the same inclinations. Hutch clutched his partner’s waist, lust taking over. There was no ‘scuse me here, it was grab all you can get as fast as you can get it. He couldn’t stop, desire driving him to thrust his tongue into Starsky’s mouth and pluck the sweetness from within.

Starsky abruptly dropped backwards, their lips unpuckering with violent force. 

Hutch hitched a breath, confused, his arms suddenly empty. “What happened?” he asked anxiously. Was Starsky changing his mind?

Starsky was spread out on the bed with a startled expression. “Fell back. Wasn’t paying any attention to the furniture!” He chortled, grabbing Hutch’s wrist to pull him down beside him. “But I gotta say, I wasn’t ready to stop.”

“Me, neither.” Hutch touched Starsky’s hair, lightly running his fingers over the curls before plunging his whole hand into the springy softness. The texture and the bounciness was so different from his own smooth, straight locks. 

Starsky grinned at him, nuzzling his wrist. 

“Probably never told you this before,” Hutch whispered, indulging in the opportunity to touch any part of his partner he wanted without censure or fear of reprisal. The slightly bristly nature of Starsky's unshaven cheek, the velvety curve of his earlobe, and the alluring warmth of his neck. “Always thought you were beautiful.”

“Me?” Starsky rolled his eyes, coming up on one elbow to be closer to Hutch. He grabbed a quick peck. “You’re the one looks like some leading man in an old movie.”

“Not a recent one?” Hutch chuckled. “Everyone in my family, hell, half of Duluth and Minneapolis, all look the same. Blond hair, blue eyes.” He stroked Starsky’s temple with the back of his hand, wanting to hold on and never let go. “First time I ever met you, I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

“At the academy?” Starsky asked, fondness softening the smile. “Or that bar, the night before?”

“The bar, babe,” Hutch admitted. He’d felt scandalous back then. A married man going out to a bar on a street in a rougher neighborhood, the night before starting a whole new career. One Vanessa had disparaged from the moment he’d decided to become a police officer. 

He’d been anxious, vacillating wildly between jumping in with both feet and withdrawing without ever having attended a single course. By chance, when picking up his uniform and class assignments the previous week, he’d seen a flyer announcing a get together for the incoming cadets at a bar.

He’d almost chickened out, but when Vanessa had to work late at the Macy’s perfume counter, he took that as a sign and ventured forth.

Had literally bumped into Starsky walking through the swinging doors into the Blue Line Tavern. When he turned to apologize, he was swept up in some kind of haze, the like of which he’d never experienced. Such a face—blue eyes far darker, and somehow deeper, than Hutch’s own, paired with rich, deep brown curls, a combination he’d found exotic and appealing. In all the years since, he’d never tired of looking at Starsky’s unique face, discovering new and precious features every day. He’d wanted a friendship from the first. The idea that he was in love, had always been in love with not just the face, but all of David Starsky, had only recently solidified. 

“Saw you and didn’t want to talk to anybody else the rest of the evening.”

“We put back more beers than we should have when we were starting class in the morning.” Starsky nodded, miming chugging a brew.

“And kept having to introduce ourselves to all the other cadets,” Hutch recalled. He’d been almost—was jealous the correct word?—of the others stealing the time he’d carved out with his new friend, afraid that there wouldn’t be another opportunity when they were competing in police work assignments or on the shooting range.

“Colby kept butting in, with inane jokes and comments,” Starsky groaned. “Got to a point in the first couple months, that I liked him a lot—“

“The Corsican Brothers,” Hutch put in, their nickname for the three of them. “Strange to realize how wrong we were.”

“That night, I wanted to dunk his head in a pitcher of beer.”

“We really do think the same things.” Hutch leaned in to catch another kiss. Funny, right now, right here, he didn’t really want anything else. Was that because this was new and special? Or was kissing Starsky so awesome that he didn’t need anything else?

“You are the best—“ Starsky paused for another lip press, tangling tongues with Hutch. “Kisser.”

“Not what you said last October,” Hutch noted when he could breathe again. His whole body was buzzing just from kissing. Or maybe it was Starsky’s close proximity.

“Sue me,” Starsky deadpanned with one arched eyebrow. “Until you get a court date, c’mere.” He hooked an arm around Hutch’s shoulders, holding him down on the bed to kiss him into oblivion.

At least, that’s what it felt like to Hutch. Pure and utter transport to another world. He reached blindly for his love, curving his fingers around the thick heat at Starsky’s groin. With a grunting thrust, Starsky came, the denim of his jeans suddenly wet against Hutch’s palm. Which made him climax, Hutch's whole being spasming harder than he’d come in years.

All for Starsky. For the rest of his life, only for Starsky. 

‘’I can’t believe we did this,” Starsky said weakly, bemusement written on his face. He lay back on the faded green and gold bedspread.

“K-kiss?” Hutch asked anxiously. Was Starsky backing out now, when Hutch was all in? “You wanted to.”

“Of course I did.” Starsky cupped Hutch’s chin, gazing at him with such joy. “Meant I’m surprised I… came without, y’know…”

“I know,” Hutch agreed joyfully. He lay, drowsy and content, with Starsky on a narrow bed not meant for two grown men. Somehow they squashed together and fit perfectly. They’d never even taken a moment to close the curtains—who knows who could have walked by and seen them? It was possible a few of the streetwalkers might recognize them. He wasn’t all that concerned with the clientele at a pay by the hour establishment. He could always claim they were undercover.

Sleepily watching the two neon palms on the street sign light up; the yellow trunk, then the spray of green fronds, over and over again, he finally remembered the reason why the place had changed its name. “This was the—“

“Pink Flamingo,” Starsky rolled on top of him, stretched full length, propping his hands on either side of Hutch’s shoulders. “Shootout between two pimps ‘bout a year ago. Big Dwayne had terrible aim.” 

“Shot the flamingo dead center!”

“And the bird’s head fell off, smacked Li’l Wayne right on the top of his when he was taking a bead on you.” He rubbed Hutch’s chest. “Never was so grateful for a flamingo.”

Touched more than he wanted to say, Hutch gave him a smooch. “That why you wanted to come here?”

“Nah.” Starsky tapped him on the nose and then rolled off, heading for the toilet. “I was horny.”

As he closed the door, Hutch could hear him humming snatches of _Purple Haze,_ singing only about half the lyrics but the Mondegreen phrase _“scuse me while I kiss this guy”_ loudest of all. Hutch vowed never to sing that song correctly ever again.

“Hey,” Starsky said languidly, leaning against the door frame when he was through. “You got any Jimi Hendrix?”

“Yep,” Hutch said, laying back with his hands behind his head so he could look at Starsky all he wanted. Admire those shoulders, that triangular shaped chest with the narrow waist, and those impossibly tight jeans over one of the best asses on the planet. “Filed alphabetically between Hall & Oates and Hot Chocolate.”

“You are so weird.” The affection in the statement was palpable.

“I think the reply to that is, takes one to know one.” Hutch got up and took his turn in the john.

“If you’re in second grade.” Starsky unabashedly watched him pull his penis out to pee.

“Sometimes I wonder how you got into high school.” Hutch grinned at him, well aware Starsky wasn’t looking at his face.

“Uh—“ Momentarily distracted, Starsky tore himself away when Hutch tucked himself back in. “You wanna go back to your place, put that Jimi Hendrix to good use?”

“Music appreciation.” Hutch put both arms around Starsky’s waist to pull him close. _“Wanna kiss you all over, and over again.”_

“That’s not Jimi Hendrix…” Starsky mumbled around the kiss.

“I’ve got that record, too.” 

FIN


End file.
